Imagine walking up. I am seated at a table. In public. Outside.
Now you are Bowing.
Transaction briskly Handled. Cash on the table.
And without a word,
Her eyes sear into your plasma.
You are sent off. With no hope of forgetting.
Β
You crawl away.
Depleted. Rinsed.
Did anyone notice?
Do you even exist?
Β
xo, Bardot.
If you've become addicted to My presence yet too fearful to approach, tribute by using Square Cash to email labardotsmith [at] gmail.com or visit My Fetish Shop.